


The Morning After

by Saziikins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:13:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He will regret every second of this in the morning. He will. Because he has Sherlock’s face buried in his neck, his teeth against sensitive skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> Let me preface this by saying I have no idea what this is. 
> 
> I don't know if I even like it. 
> 
> I probably don't like it. But there's something in how uneasy this fic makes me feel which I do like, so I thought I'd share it because I haven't got anything to add to it and because it's fun to unleash some experimental pieces into the world, even if they don't really work. 
> 
> I'll say it's just me playing with sentences, and a warm-up exercise for writing normal stuff which actually makes sense and is a lot easier to read. 
> 
> Anyway. Here we are... Here is the madness which is my brain.

He really needs to fuck up right now. Of course, he also wants to fuck, but mostly he wants to simply Not. Be. Good. 

For five minutes, he wants to fuck up. He wants to do something so damn fucking insane that in the morning he will hate himself for it, but at least he will feel as though he has lived. At least he will have felt _something_. 

He is so good all the time. To hell with being good.

It’s how they see him. Look at him, just look at him, the good policeman, the good man, good father, good husband. Well, he was a good husband until she fucked up and destroyed it all. And yet he doesn’t hate her for it, doesn’t blame her for it. How freeing must it have been to fuck up? To do something so wrong, to live only for pleasure? To be so in the moment that everything else faded away, no matter how wrong it was? 

He’s learning it now. 

Oh, he will regret every second of this in the morning. He will. Because he has Sherlock’s face buried in his neck, his teeth against sensitive skin. Sherlock is fucking him, and he aches with it. Sherlock is relentless, thrusting hips, his prick driving into him.

It’s oblivion. It’s pleasure so good and so intense it has all gone black behind his eyes. It is slaps of balls against his arse, and pants against his ear. And that it is Sherlock fucking him, Sherlock kissing his sensitive lips so hard they feel bruised… It only makes this picture feel more wrong. 

Right. It feels right. 

He will hate himself for this in the morning. Hate the crescent marks he has left on Sherlock’s shoulders with his nails. Hate the way Sherlock made it feel so good. 

Has he ever been fucked like this before? He doubts it, with the few thoughts he is capable of as Sherlock’s long fingers curl around his cock. 

His orgasm is ripped from him, and he knows he is grunting and groaning and panting for breath as his head hits the pillow. He keeps his eyes shut, because in a few minutes, reality will hit and it’ll be the most screwed up, idiotic thing he has done since… He doesn’t even know. He’s never been this impulsive before. 

He peers down through half-lidded eyes, to where Sherlock is pulling out of him, a smug, self-satisfied smile on his face, hair sticking to his forehead and standing up in haphazard angles. He kneels, and throws the condom away, and still he keeps kneeling, one hand behind his head, the other on his hip. He wears his nakedness without shame. He’s a sexy sonofabitch and he knows it. 

Greg cannot meet his eyes. They drop instead to his body. Sherlock has a bruise on his shoulder. One Greg put there. A dirty reminder, he can’t escape it now, it’s done, it’ll seal itself into his memory. 

Greg has to look away from him. 

“Staying?” Sherlock asks. 

“No,” Greg replies. 

“Sure?”

“No.”

Sherlock shrugs and lies down beside him, his head by Greg’s feet, leaving a gap between their bodies. 

Greg stares up at the ceiling, and despite the intensity of an orgasm he has long-needed, he has tension running through his bloodstream. The strangeness of it all, the ease with which it has all happened, is sending his mind into overdrive, where no thought will last long enough for him to cling to.

Shame? No, not shame. He doesn’t feel shame. 

Will he feel it when he washes his dried come from his stomach and remembers how it felt to have Sherlock’s cock pushing into him? Maybe. 

Either way, he doesn’t feel better. Fucking up felt good, _fucking_ felt good, but now he feels fucked and not in a good way. 

He feels used. He feels like he has used Sherlock. This isn’t his way, it was his ex-wife’s way, and he wonders even more how she could have done that to him. Feeling wanted for five minutes doesn’t make up for a lifetime of longing. 

He opens his eyes. Sherlock hasn’t moved. Nor has he. There they lie, head to toe, naked, covered in goosebumps. 

Greg feels his chest rise with every breath, conscious of it, trying to find clarity through the mist in his mind. He lifts his head. Sherlock does the same, their eyes meeting then looking away immediately. 

Ten years, they’ve known one another. He has never been Greg’s salvation, nor Greg been his. Somehow Sherlock was never calmed by his care, nor Greg lifted to some higher plane of intelligence by the simple fact of his presence.

Fucking Sherlock was the very worst thing he could have done, the epitome of fucking up. 

Yet he sees it now, the moment their lips met, the rough way he gripped Sherlock’s coat collar, pushed him up against the wall. Sherlock met his kisses with his own, and he whispered ‘yes’ over and over, the only word out of his mouth, just yes, yes, yes. 

Greg’s head falls back against the pillow. The sun is beginning to set, and Sherlock’s bedroom is getting gradually darker. He won’t stay, can’t stay, fucking up is supposed to be a brief thing, a moment of respite from the chaos of his whole stupid life. 

He should speak. Apologise, maybe? They’ve probably messed up what semblance of friendship they have. Hell, they can’t even look at one another now. Sherlock will want to work with someone else, or maybe he’ll avoid the Yard for good now, Lord knows, he has enough cases of his own these days. 

Finally Greg sits up. He stares down at his hands, and at his naked form. 

“If you’re going to have regrets, you can take them out of my flat,” Sherlock says, getting off the bed and collecting his dressing gown. “You have five minutes to have your crisis and stay, or five minutes to leave.” He stalks out of the room and closes the door, leaving Greg blinking on the bed. 

He catches a breath, and sits on the edge, his feet touching the floor. Time to leave then. He closes his eyes. 

Regret though? 

The word echoes through his head. He has fucked up, he is sure this was fucking up, but regret? He doesn’t regret kissing Sherlock, of stripping him down, of taking his dick in his mouth and making him moan. 

Sherlock was the worst choice he could make, but he also seemed the only choice. Everyone else he knew was too damned good to drag into his temporary descent into darkness. 

But was Sherlock really the only option, or the only option he wanted to pursue? 

He doesn’t know. 

But he does know he has been kissed, and he knows he has been touched, and for the time they’ve been together, he has been wanted. 

He forgot how it felt to be wanted. 

He sits and he waits. Sherlock returns. He hangs the dressing gown up and he sits down beside Greg on the bed. 

“Lie down,” Sherlock instructs, and Greg does just that, laying on his side. Sherlock spoons up behind him, curving his body against his. He doesn’t wrap an arm around him, just lays there, a warm presence. He pulls the covers up over them both. 

Greg stays and he sleeps. 

He wakes while it is still dark, and he blinks, disorientated. His hand finds Sherlock’s shoulder and he starts to remember anger, a dizzying confusion, then adrenaline, then... But then Sherlock’s lips are on his, and they’re soft, and the kiss is gentle and tender and it tears him from his thoughts.

Greg is trembling. His heart races. He feels an outpouring of emotion, and despair just begging to be let out, and he isn’t prepared for this. He only wanted to escape, just for a while, and he has Sherlock’s arms around him and he has surely overstayed his welcome. 

And Sherlock says just two words: “I know.” 

Greg has no idea what he knows. Sherlock knows everything, of course he does, but Greg doesn’t think he can know this. He can’t know how he has been feeling and not feeling all at once. He cannot know how it feels to be so alone. And yet, and yet, of course he does. 

“Dammit, Sherlock,” Greg whispers against his chest, and he squeezes his bicep and releases him. He blinks into the darkness, trying to see him, trying to analyse the way Sherlock is looking at him. But he sees only the outline of his face. 

He remembers the day he arrested Sherlock. The day he stopped trusting him. The day he jumped, the moment Greg found out. He remembers two years of loss, and two years of struggle. He remembers hearing his voice after two years, seeing him, his scent, his body, firm against his, heart beating.

But the loss never went away. 

Sherlock was there, but it was not the same. And Greg never asked why. He smiled and he was good, and did all they expected of him. 

But today he broke. 

There was Moriarty on that television, and he was so angry, and he needed to do something bad, needed to do something he could regret. He wanted to fuck his own life up so he could start afresh and he found… Found Sherlock. Sought him out, maybe, he isn’t sure. 

He is sure Sherlock is watching him though. Greg takes one long breath. 

“Do you regret what happened?” Sherlock finally asks.

Greg pauses. Shakes his head.

“Are you ashamed?”

“No,” Greg whispers.

“Good. There are only two things you need to know. The first, is that I wanted this to happen. The second is that I didn’t plan it.”

Greg bits his lip and forces himself to settle back down, resting his cheek against Sherlock’s chest. “And now?”

“We’re going out,” Sherlock announces and hops out of bed, pulling on his clothes. “Come on.”

“Sherlock, it’s late.”

“It’s morning, it’s early.” 

Greg lets out a curse but dresses anyway, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, groggy and only consenting because he always does everything this madman wants. 

They leave the flat. They walk down the road in silence, feeling the chill against their faces, the drizzle on their skin. 

Their route takes them to Regent’s Park, with shadowy trees and a river with water almost black in the cloak of darkness. 

“What are we doing?” Greg finally asks as they reach a bench, and he sinks down onto it, ignoring the rain getting heavier by the minute. 

He looks up at Sherlock who is watching him with a guarded expression, his hands stuffed into his pockets, hair sticking to his face. Sherlock doesn’t answer him for a few long seconds, and Greg wonders if he will ever say what’s on his mind. 

“I wanted to do something right for once,” Sherlock finally says, turning his head away. “I killed a man. I…”

“You fucked up,” Greg whispers, finishing his sentence. 

“I did.” 

Silence lingers, and Greg stares down at his hands. “Why me?” Greg asks.

He hears Sherlock’s sardonic huff of laughter, watches his shoulders rise and fall with his shrug. “Because I needed you.”

Greg’s head spins. The words echo around his head. He lifts his eyes to where Sherlock stands, avoiding Greg's eyes. Greg stands and shivers and feels an apprehensive flutter in his chest. He reaches out, and wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s, and tugs him closer. 

Their eyes meet. They look at one another properly, and begin the slow, silent walk back to Baker Street. 

Greg doesn’t know what will happen in the morning. All he knows is he is needed and wanted, and he needs and wants in equal measure. He takes and is taken. 

He doesn’t think he has fucked up. But he will know properly in the morning, when the sun rises, when it all feels like it happened to somebody else. 

* * *

He wakes in the morning still wrapped in Sherlock’s arms.

* * *

He wakes up that way every morning after.


End file.
